by Carol Caiton
What kind of nightmare had taught him all that? She stared at the scars on his chest, on his arm, and wondered if there were some she hadn't yet seen. He'd been brutalized. A lump swelled in her chest. Her heart wrenched for the boy who had been savaged and traumatized and she wondered who had saved him. She wondered as well why he suffered from claustrophobia as a result.
He was still inside her. She focused her attention on the sensation. He wasn't as thick now. She didn't feel as stretched and full. But she absorbed the wonder of him there, the miracle of his body covering hers, and the joy of being held in his arms.
She was falling for him. On a Friday afternoon in the middle of a panic attack, he'd become her anchor and her lover. She was having trouble breathing with his weight on top of her but she didn't want him to move. Not ever. She'd been starved for this. All of it. Starved for the touching, the affection, the sharing, the unity . . . .
Silent tears welled in her eyes and she fought them back. She wouldn't cry this time. He'd given her the gift of boundless touch, the gift of caging her demons, the gift of womanhood. He'd given her everything. She wouldn't repay him with tears.
Smoothing her hand over his skin, she ran her fingers through the springy hair on his chest. She'd seen guys at the beach. And she'd seen Nathan at the pool many times over the years. But she'd never touched a man's hairy chest. Michael's felt coarse, like the hair on his legs. And it was darker than the sun-streaked blond on his head.
So much was new. So much she'd taken for granted visually. She hadn't realized what a difference, how much fuller everything was when touch was added.
He drew in a deep breath which prevented her from drawing one herself. Then he slipped his arm around her waist and rolled to his side, taking her with him. One heavy leg wedged between hers and he pulled her in closer. "You okay?"
She smiled to herself. She was more than okay. She was so alive, so complete, there was no end to the joy filling her up inside. "Yes," she told him. "I'm okay."
She felt his heart thud against her cheek, heavy and strong. He heaved a deep breath, sighed, and said, "So how do you afford to keep a Bugatti up and running? Do you work besides going to school?"
She almost laughed. After everything they'd just experienced together, he was asking about her car?
Then his question sank in and she smiled a private smile. She hadn't told him she was still in school. So that meant he'd been interested enough to locate her file and read it. Then she told herself to be realistic. Mason could just as easily have mentioned it when he'd taken her request to the board of directors.
"I'm a research assistant for two of my professors," she said, frowning when she found another scar lower down on his stomach. This one was thin and about two inches long. "The pay is minimal," she went on, "but I live at home so I don't have many expenses."
"Like what?"
"My expenses?"
"Yeah."
She settled her cheek against his chest again. "Well, there's my car, clothes, books for school, and miscellaneous costs. My parents started a college fund for both Jill and me when we were children, so that takes care of tuition—"
"Your father's a doctor."
"Yes. A pediatrician."
"So he's a doctor and you're studying to be a pharmacist. What about your sister? Is she in the medical field too?"
He had read her file. "Yes. My mother as well. Or at least she used to be. She was a nurse before Jill and I were born."
She tilted her head back to look up at him. A distant expression had entered his eyes and she wondered if he was reflecting on his own family. Then the look was gone and he leaned forward to kiss her hair.
"Come take a shower with me," he said. "Then we'll get something to eat. I'm hungry.
* * *
He listened to the sound of her using his hair dryer while he went looking for a clean pair of jeans. He would still be in the bathroom too, watching her, if he didn't have some serious thinking to do. But he did. And she was the topic on his mind. Because every time he was with her, things—ordinary things—changed. Stuff he'd done a million times before, even standing in the bathroom with her, was different. More enhanced. Like going from analog to digital. And then, when he was alone again, like now, they went back to analog.
He felt things he'd never felt before. Like jealousy. The fury that strained for release when Dalton slid his hand over her ass had been instantaneous and almost uncontrollable. And this need to keep an eye on her, like he was the only one who could, was getting stronger. Like something might happen if he didn't. Like maybe she'd disappear and he wouldn't be able to find her again.
He knew that could happen. It had happened before, when he was ten years old and his mother walked out into the street and got hit by a bus. And it happened a year after that, when a fucking maggot stole him out of a city park and he'd lost everyone and everything that meant something to him. Everyone. Everything. Fucking gone.
He didn't ever want to feel that loss again, didn't ever want to care so deep inside that the thought losing someone almost strangled him. He'd nearly screwed up his friendship with Simon because he cared too much. And that's where this was going with Rachel. He was already in deeper than he wanted to be.
He asked himself again what it was that made her different? He hardly knew her. Then again, maybe that wasn't true. He hadn't known her long, but he knew her. And what they'd done together just now in his bed . . . . It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, and he'd experienced a hell of a lot. He'd even been with two separate R-links and had the best frigging sex of his life. But it hadn't been like this . . . so full he felt like he was gonna bust open with everything he was feeling. Not just digital, but high definition.
He stared down at the carpet and knew he was gonna have to walk away from her again. He'd all but told her he wouldn't but he had to. It had been intense before, but every time he was near her it got worse and he couldn't take that risk. The next time his heart was ripped open, he might not be able to recover. He might just bleed to death.
Bending down, he reached for his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. His voice mailbox showed two calls, both from Mason. No surprise there.
He sat down on the bed and listened to the first message.
"It's Mason. I'm leaving for the day and I'm taking Rachel's purse and clothing with me. Stop by for it anytime before eleven. And Michael —be careful with her."
He gave a little snort and went to the next message.
"It's Mason. There's been an accident. My brother. I need you to bring Rachel home. It's Jill. She won't accept . . . ." He cleared his throat. "Get back to me."
Fuck!
He was up and standing beside the bed before he realized he wasn't sitting anymore. He checked the time of the last call. Ten minutes ago. He punched the Callback button. It rang twice, then Mason answered.
"How's Luke?" Michael asked.
No answer. No answer and the silence goddamn shouted what he didn't want to hear.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! "Where are you, Mason?"
Pause. "I'm at the Oslunds." He started to give directions.
"I know where it is," Michael broke in. "Was Jill hurt?"
"No. Jill wasn't in the car."
"Okay. Stay there at the Oslunds. I'm on my way with Rachel."
He ended the call and yanked on his jeans while punching on Malcolm's speed-dial number.
The hair dryer turned off as he pulled open the door of his walk-in closet. He grabbed a pair of sweats for Rachel from one of the drawer units. Another drawer held a bunch of clean T-shirts and he yanked one over his head at the same time she came out of the bathroom.
Wrapped in a towel, her hair fell in spiral curls down to her ass. She took one look at his face and stopped walking.
"What is it?"
Fuck. Ah, fuck. "C'mere, baby." He tried to keep the urgency out of his voice and opened one arm to her.
For a minute she didn't move. Then she came to him slowly, like sh
e really didn't want to.
"Michael, what is it?" she asked again.
He slid his arm around her shoulders. How the hell did you give someone shitty news? He kissed the top of her head, smelled his shampoo in her hair, then straightened.
"Mason's brother was in an accident," he said quietly. "Jill wasn't with him," he hurried to assure her, "but I don't think Luke made it."
She stood still as a statue, frozen-like. Processing? Then suddenly she pulled away and searched his eyes. "Luke's dead?" The color washed out of her face. "Jill!"
"Jill wasn't with him," he told her again. "Jill's okay."
She just stared at him. "Where is she, Michael? Where's Jill?"
"She's at your house. With your parents. I need to take you home, so you need to get dressed." He held out the clothes he'd gotten for her. "Here. Put these on and I'll get you a pair of socks to wear."
"Michael . . . ."
"I know, baby. I know."
CHAPTER 15
The first thing he noticed when Rachel opened the front door was the aroma of food cooking. The second thing he noticed was the cop.
Who was this guy? A friend of Mason's? He started right for Rachel as soon as she walked into the living room. But when Michael followed behind her, the asshole stopped, narrowed his eyes, and had ATTITUDE written all over him. He shifted his gaze back to Rachel, eyeballing the T-shirt that fell almost to her knees. Then his eyes moved lower, to the baggy sweats all bunched up around her ankles and calves, and the way-too-big socks she wore without shoes.
He looked at Michael again, his jaw clenched like a vise, and Michael really wanted to know who the fucker was and what he was doing here.
Rachel's parents looked up.
Mason turned around.
"Rachel," her mother murmured, and Michael noticed that her nose was pink like Rachel's nose got when she cried.
But Michael switched his gaze to her father 'cause he was taking in the fact that his little girl was dressed in a man's clothing. His clothing. Like the cop, his eyes traveled down to her feet and he frowned when he saw that she wore only a pair of socks. Then he turned to Michael and started across the room, hand extended.
"Michael. Thank you for bringing Rachel home."
"Mr. Oslund." He returned the somber greeting, then looked over at Mason. A little paler than normal. He was holding it together, but the strain around his eyes told Michael his control didn't come easily.
"Don't let him drive," Mr. Oslund murmured quietly.
Michael pulled his gaze back to the older man. He was a doctor. A pediatrician, Rachel had said. "I won't."
Rachel did a quick scan of the room. Looking for her twin? But Jill wasn't there. Upstairs maybe? Then he heard a clattering of dishes from the back of the house. Rachel went still for a second, then her shoulders seemed to relax. She walked over to Mason, holding out both hands.
"Mason." She was composed now, but she looked pale, too. Vulnerable. "Will you tell me what happened?"
Mason took her hands and held onto them. Maybe he just needed someone to hold onto, but Michael started counting the seconds.
"Luke was on I-4," he said quietly. "The driver in front of him slammed on his brakes."
At five seconds, Michael looked at her father. He, too, was looking at Rachel's hands in Mason's.
"Luke slammed on his brakes too," Mason went on, then seemed to have a hard time pushing the words out.
Michael watched Rachel start to tense up, which made him tense up with her. At seven seconds he couldn't take it anymore. Walking across the room, he slid his arm around her waist and eased her away. Mason automatically let go and Rachel snapped her head around to look up at him, her face all tense. Then she sagged against him in relief and looked back at Mason.
"The eighteen-wheeler behind Luke didn't have enough stopping distance," Mason got out. "You've seen that little convertible Luke has. The truck . . . drove right over him."
"Holy shit," Michael murmured. He pulled Rachel in closer. "Geez, man . . . ."
"I picked up Jill and brought her here. I didn't want her to . . . ." He looked away and inhaled.
"How did she take it, Mason?" Rachel asked.
"She . . . didn't. She won't. She chattered about something at work until we got here. Then she chased your mother out of the kitchen and started cooking dinner for everyone. That's why I phoned Michael to bring you home."
Rachel looked over at the cop. "Where's Ali, Nathan?"
Nathan? She knew this guy?
"Ali's at rehearsal. The Christmas concert starts this weekend. She probably turned off her phone before she went inside."
Rachel nodded. Then she looked up at Michael. "Will you wait?"
He wanted to take Mason and leave. Family dynamics weren't in his comfort zone and this was a bad situation. Plus, her father hadn't stopped staring at him from the moment he put his arm around Rachel and pulled her away from Mason. Her old man was gonna want to talk to him. He knew it because he still had his arm around her and it had been a couple of minutes now. The cop—whoever he was—probably wanted answers too. He hadn't stopped staring either, except his eyes were suspicious and calculating.
Michael looked at Mason. But Mason was staring toward the back of the house. He probably wouldn't leave until he knew Rachel's sister was okay. And since Michael wasn't gonna let him drive . . . . "Yeah, I'll wait."
She nodded then slipped away from him and padded off toward where he figured the kitchen was, his baggy clothes all puffed out around her legs, long hair rippling down her back. She was beautiful, damn it. He wanted more time with her and it pissed him off that he couldn't have it.
Mason followed her to the other end of the long living room then stopped and stood in a wide doorway. The cop gave Michael a last glowering look and followed. Then Rachel's mother headed that way too. And since Michael wasn't gonna give her husband a chance to start asking questions that could get personal real fast, he trailed behind the others.
So he found himself standing in the middle of a group of eavesdroppers and he, and everyone else, looked down the length of the kitchen. It was a big room, wide and long with a table set up at this end. Maybe Mrs. Oslund was some kind of gourmet cook or something. There were all sorts of electrical appliances along the counters.
He focused on Rachel. Both she and Jill stood with their backs facing everyone. Jill had something in her hands—a head of lettuce maybe—and Rachel started washing her hands. The only way he could tell them apart from the back was by his clothes.
Rachel dried her hands on a paper towel, gave her sister a little nudge with her hip, and grabbed a cutting board that was standing against the backsplash. Yeah, a salad. He saw the red of a tomato before Rachel put it on the cutting board and started slicing.
Neither one of them said a word. So how the hell was that supposed to help anything? But Rachel told him they had a connection so he wanted to see how this played out.
It took about a minute. Then Jill finally spoke. "Nice clothes."
Michael grinned. Yeah, they were. He had a whole drawer full of sweats, but he was sort of partial to the Tee.
Rachel looked down as though trying to remember what she'd put on that morning. "They're Michael's," she said, reaching for another tomato.
They were quiet again for a minute. Then Jill asked, "So how did you end up wearing Michael's clothes?"
And suddenly their conversation wasn't so interesting. Hell, he was standing right beside her mother and her father was next to Mason.
"I went to his house," Rachel said.
Okay. Okay. That was good. Nice and simple and evasive.
Jill sniffed. Then Rachel sniffed too. She held out her hand and Jill put something in it. He could just make out the glistening wetness on her cheeks.
Another minute or so passed before they said anything again. Geez.
Jill sniffed. "I go over to Nathan's a lot." Sniff. "But I never end up wearing his clothes."
Shit. She wasn
't gonna let it go.
"You go see Nathan a lot?" Sniff.
"Some. I worry about him. Same as you do." Sniff. She looked at his T-shirt and there were definitely tears running down her face. "So how did you end up supporting the manatees?"
It took Rachel a minute to answer. Good for you, baby. Think first. Keep it simple and don't give anything away.
"I slept with him, Jilly."
Ah . . . . . . . fuck.
Mason's head shot up. Rachel's mother whirled to face him, her eyes wide with shock. The cop looked like he'd turned to stone. And her father just stared at him.
So what now? Did he have to worry about her father stirring up trouble for him?
He shifted his attention back to Rachel and her sister because what the hell else was he supposed to do?
Jill stopped slicing whatever it was she was slicing and turned to look at Rachel. "You went to bed with Michael." It wasn't a question.
Rachel put her knife down on the counter, sniffed, and faced Jill. They just stood there staring at each other for like thirty seconds. Rachel's face was wet with tears, too. Then she took a breath and said, "Luke isn't coming home anymore, Jilly."
Jill's whole body shook, like she was standing outside on a cold night.
"I know," she murmured. And hell if he didn't get a lump in his throat at all the anguish in her voice.
Surprising him, Rachel reached both arms around her sister. They both sank down to the floor, hugging, and all that blonde hair surrounded them like a circling silky curtain.
Mrs. Oslund, crying now, gestured for everyone to follow her back into the living room. Michael wanted to stay where he was to see how long Rachel and her sister could keep hugging. He wanted them to keep distracting everyone from focusing on him. But maybe Mason was ready to leave now.
